


Then Comes Godly

by ClementineStarling



Series: ... and the Devil walks with Him [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-04-19 02:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4728974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>random (mostly smutty) snippets set a couple of months before the events of the film,<br/>all of which can be read as stand-alones. (i just didn't want to clutter my account with a lot of ficlets)</p><p>please see chapter summaries/notes for warnings!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strawberries

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Guiltless by Martin Grech because of [this fantastic fanvid](http://viceindustrious.livejournal.com/28305.html) by [viceindustrious](http://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/pseuds/viceindustrious) and also because the song is absolutely perfect for B/C!
> 
> I'm terribly late to this party, but be warned – I won't leave until somebody throws me out.
> 
> Again: pointing out spelling/grammar/expression mistakes will be richly rewarded with ... erm... perhaps leprechaun gold.

Over time Blackwood's fingertips have had countless different colours, they have been tinged golden with magic, and charred black by costlier spells, dusted chalk-white from drawing a circle on the stone floor, and sometimes painted the rust-red of blood, but it is strawberry pink he likes them best, Coward decides as he sucks another fruit from his lord's fingers.  
The strawberries are dark, almost black, and so ripe, they melt on the tongue in a burst of sweetness; they'd be perfect were not some of them already laced with the hint of something darker, something earthy, a trace of decay, a reminder of the fugaciousness of things. And Coward can't help the thought, as it flashes into his mind: “Will I become like this, pass my peak, grow mouldy to Henry's taste...” 

But Blackwood, who is ever attentive to his moods, who never misses the smallest shift in his temper, only puts these beautifully stained fingers under his chin and lifts his head, so he is forced to look into his eyes, and what he sees there dissolves all doubt in an instant. So do the lips that brush over his in what could be a chaste kiss, were it not for the scarcely concealed hunger in their hard lines, sharp-edged like a blade, cutting him open, leaving him raw and vulnerable and _wanting_.

And Blackwood indulges him, trails fiery fingers down the length of his neck, over his collarbone and deeper, a gentle, burning promise, presses a greedy hand over his groin where Coward's desire is rising to meet its touch. He laughs at the desperate noises spilling from Coward's mouth, even though he does not hesitate to drink them from his lips, and it feels like he sucks his soul from him, and every shred of reason, until Coward is ablaze with passion, nothing but desperate need licking at his insides.

It is how Blackwood likes him best, half-mad with lust, bereft of all his composure and eloquence, _such a pretty thing_ , he calls him, made for his pleasure, and that's what he takes from him, and amply so. He uses his mouth, those lush lips and eager tongue, until Coward's jaw hurts and his eyes water and he is gasping for air, and still he cannot get enough of his lord's desire for him, and he is filled to the brim with a yearning for _harder_ and _faster_ and _more_.

“Countenance, Daniel”, Blackwood whispers as he holds him down, and Coward ceases his struggling at once, lies still and obedient and waits, hopes for another touch, another caress, while he concentrates not to arch into Blackwood's hands, not to whimper and moan and beg. The gentle brush of fingers on his starved flesh is more of a torment than any kind of relief, but he keeps quiet, wide-eyed and trembling, yet silent – and Blackwood gives him a smile that might convey something like pride, and for a moment Coward is convinced to have found a higher form of satisfaction, but then Blackwood teaches him otherwise, as he trails his fingers over his mouth and he can't help but open it – hungrily, eagerly – and suck, twirl his tongue around them in shameless reverence, and his reward is devastating: the fingers pushing into him, almost too gentle as they seek out that delightful place inside him, though they wreak havoc nonetheless, the stimulation so good it hurts, he wants it to stop and he wants it to go on forever, and yet, just as he is poised at the very edge of climax, Blackwood denies him his release, withdraws his fingers and instead only looks at him as he lies there, shaking, the gleam of madness in his eyes, and the silk-sheen of sweat on his skin, as if he has never seen the likes of him.

“If I could, I would have you like this forever”, he says as he spreads Coward's legs open and over his thighs and presses into him, slowly, careful not to make him come, not yet, “so desperate, so hungry for my cock”, he pushes deeper, a move that elicits an agonised whine from Coward, the sensation is intolerable on his oversensitive nerves, and still not enough, and Coward bites his lip bloody not to cry, and his lord appears to be pleased with his efforts, because he changes his angle, leans down over him, an angel of death and destruction, Coward is certain by now this is what awaits him, absolute ruin, but he could not care less, and Blackwood's fingers bury themselves in his hair, pulling tight, and the pain seems the most delicious thing, as he is yanked further into the mind-numbing pleasure that is Henry Blackwood, onto his cock and against the hardness of his stomach, the weight of his body so good on his own engorged flesh, he is panting for air, close to passing out, close to coming, and he cannot help it anymore but plead, his voice rough with unresolved tension, and at long last his lord has mercy on him and sets a more purposeful pace, thrusting into him in long, deep, thorough strokes, each of which is accompanied by Coward's choked gasps of _yes_ and _please_ and _Henry_. 

It does not take long after that, even though Coward can never be truly sure about that, for time has ceased to exist, there is nothing but the sharp stabs of pleasure in his belly, the looming palsy of orgasm, a near-faint that will devour everything he is and was and will be. And when Henry at last closes his clever, gorgeous fingers around his cock and strokes, he is done for and everything goes slick and white and dark in waves of blinding bliss.


	2. Dawn

_

he treasures these rare mornings, when he wakes first, opens his eyes into the dream-blue of dawn, which is so unlike the sober bleakness of later day, when for once he's got Henry all for himself, and there is no hunger, no mask on his face, when he is entirely at peace, the long lines of his limbs mellowed, the wiry muscles relaxed-- these are utterly perfect moments, Daniel thinks as he waits for Henry to stir, the gentle grasp of sleep to wane, until he begins his worship, reverent kisses, the soft drag of lips over exposed skin, that elicits deliciously low moans and make elegant fingers grope drowsily for his head, following its path instead of guiding it for once, tangle themselves in the unruly strands as if seeking for purchase, and the taste of Henry has never been better, Daniel can not just smell the magnificence of his visions on him, but also – distinctly – the mortality of his vessel, in the slight dampness of silky skin, the tang of sweat on his tongue, and his god is never more human than in these stolen hours.  
_


	3. Summoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this fic contains violence and blood (as in human sacrifice).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a woman not afraid of kitsch is truely fearless.

He has been adamant that Blackwood teaches him.  
“I need to know”, he says, again and again, “there is no other way I can be of assistance, if need should arise.” He knows very well that their plan is reckless at best.

“You have no idea what you ask of me”, Blackwood sighs, reluctant for all the trust he has already shown him.

“Then tell me. Show me.”

And at last Blackwood does give in. He hands him the chalk and the candle, the knife and the book, even procures their sacrifice, a pretty boy, allegedly an artist, with milk-white skin and hair of dark chestnut and Coward wonders if the victim's uncanny semblance to himself is meant as a warning or as a substitute, when he puts the blade against skin, against flesh, presses deeper, past the smooth and beautiful surface into the white slimy tissue that lies underneath, into flexing, trembling, twitching muscle, and the blood wells up, more and more with every incision he makes, searing and crimson and reeking of iron, and so much of it, so much...

He has never seen such butchery, but it is what the ritual requires, Blackwood nods to every unasked question, and after a while he stops hesitating, stops turning his eyes to his lord who stands in the shadows and observes, the angular lines of his face unreadable, almost hidden by the lingering dark.

The ceremony develops a flow, a pull that sucks him in, he moves trance-like, and his voice does not shake as he recites the incantation, the words stream through him of their own accord, and soon the air begins to congeal in the room, like a curtain being drawn, making room for another kind of emptiness, a door to the great void beyond, and--

the voice is like shivers crawling down his spine, the toothache sensation of fingernails on a blackboard.

“Coward”, it says, the strange name even stranger as it slithers off its tongue, “so are you the one who cows or who cowers? Conqueror or craven, Norse or French?”

It sniggers as if all of this were a joke designed for its amusement, as if it wasn't here following a call, mad, ghastly giggles that make Coward's hair stand on end.

When he does not answer, it continues. “Ah, you silly mortals and the value you put on names. Once people thought it was speaking my name that summoned me, you know, not their fear or their wantonness, these gaping gates to their souls, and they believed in the power of words to banish me, to keep me at bay” – again this bone-melting, nerve-shattering laugh – “though words hold no sway over me.”

But Coward knows only too well how words can cut and hurt, how they destroy reputations, end careers, even bring down empires; and he knows it lies, it always lies, which only proves the point, the inherent power of spoken thought, that once something is uttered, it becomes reality, makes up its very fabric, and he takes the word that rests on his tongue and weighs it, like a tool, hones it like a weapon, before he hurls it forward like David flung the stone, and it shrieks and retreats and oh yes, now it knows what his name means.

“Don't play with me”, Coward hisses, his words magnified by the magic running through him, “I summoned you here to do my bidding, and now you will do as you are told.” His voice fills the room as he recites the last part of the rite, the binding spell, his demands, his orders.

Blackwood looks strangely at him once the magic has settled again, the air cleared. Stares at him as if he's never seen him before, his eyes burning through Coward's excitement, that magically induced giddiness, just shy of madness, flay him open as they've done many times before, but this time something is different. Blackwood sheds his ceremonial robes, lets them fall carelessly to the floor, pays no heed to the fact they will be spoilt utterly by the remains of life flooding the floor. He does not mind the blood staining his leather shoes as he takes another step towards Coward. His elegant fingers have begun to loosen his cravat, Coward is mesmerised by the sight, watches them undo buttons, strip off the brocade and the fine linen, his mouth dry, breathing forgotten. 

Blackwood is tall, a circumstance that alone seems to add a certain mass to his frame, no matter the leanness of his limbs, the sharp angles of his bones that are scarcely mellowed by tightly wound muscle. Coward swallows hard at the display of austere strength, symbol of the hunger and determination that drive Blackwood constantly, that will never let him rest until his appetites are satisfied, and how he aches to be devoured by his lord's longing.

Blackwood is completely naked once he reaches him, rips his own robe off him and bites at his mouth, at his throat, teeth so sharp and so good, and Coward repays him in kind, still drunk on power and magic. They are wolves after all, are they not? He lets himself be shoved to the floor, the blood still warm against his back, the rust-scent sickening, ready to spread his legs, ready to be fucked, but Blackwood stops him, “not like this”, he rasps and kneels over him, nails almost punishing on his milky skin, and Coward's eyes go wide as he finally understands and then Blackwood already sinks onto him, almost too tight and too much, and he bucks and twists under his weight as if to escape the sensation, but Blackwood has him and holds him down, pins him to the slick stone beneath, and moves, strokes himself on Coward's cock, gasps, and Coward clutches on to his sanity, for nothing could be more magnificent than this sight and feel and he snaps his hips up into an almost brutal thrust, and the sound Blackwood makes is absolutely desperate, and then he laughs, a hoarse, wicked laugh and challenges him to do it again, and Coward obliges.

They cannot last long at this pace, but none of them cares as they rock into each other, their hands like claws, bruising, scratching, drawing blood, pain and magic and pleasure, better than anything ever was, a moment stretching into eternity, creatures of the dark, made for each other, and Blackwood comes first, although perhaps only because Coward dares not give out before he has seen his completion, and felt it, the frantic arch of his body, the sudden stillness, the long, hot strands of seed falling onto his chest, burning as holy water, and most of all the violent spasms around him, that drag him along into fulfilment.


	4. Charade

Sometimes it is hard to conceal their relation, especially when they're attending the same balls and parties. The public must not know they are acquainted, much less suspect the true nature of their connection; not even the order may realise they are more than brethren vaguely linked by the bonds of their cult. Too much depends on it. That is one of the reasons, he rarely goes out, Blackwood claims; another would be that he must keep up his mysterious façade, as he never tires to explain, when Coward presses him to accept another invitation. “But it will be such good fun”, Coward keeps saying, for he enjoys those little charades immensely: the polite inclination of their heads, when they accidentally join the same conversation, the ever repeating introductions by well meaning members of society, their courteous but short exchange of words, the pretence they do not like each other. That Coward is too much of a proper gentleman to approve of Blackwood's shady reputation, and Blackwood in return has little regard for the conservative opinions of a politician. It's like a dance, a secret game, and Coward revels in it.

Some of the thrill lies in the faint pang of jealousy he experiences, whenever Blackwood is surrounded by love-struck ladies and curious men, people in awe, clinging to him like insects to a lampshade. Coward tells himself they are only, as he was once, eager to see first-hand if the colourful rumours about Lord Henry Blackwood are true, but this is of course also the reason he is jealous, because he can never be sure whether his Henry might take a fancy to one of them. Until this very moment he is in the comfortable, comforting position, that he alone knows Blackwood, that it is him he confides in, and also him who shares his bed. Though this might be taken away, and Coward basks in the pain of this possibility that makes all he has so much more valuable, and the reassurance of the later hours, when he is allowed to worship his lord, and is touched in return, and there is nothing, no one between them. 

And Blackwood understands this about him, as he understands so many things. Which is why he agrees to attend a party now and then. And when he stands across the room then, an ostensible stranger, impossibly tall and handsome, talking to a small crowd of admirers, Coward has to pull himself together not to stare.

From time to time Blackwood will let his gaze wander through the room and rest on him for just a moment, its weight hot and heavy on Coward's sensitive skin, just enough to have him flush and stir, and the iron band of desire settle around his lower spine, for he is bound to him, with every fibre of his being, and what he would like best is to walk over, and stand by his side, even kneel if required, and let everyone know to whom he belongs.


	5. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coward attends a dinner party at the country house of an acquaintance, and suffers a suprise...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all who are sensitive in that regard or who simply appreciate a warning: this is pretty nonconnish.  
> Also contains allusions to the rape of a girl.
> 
> One for viceindustrious, I presume. :*

Coward trails his fingers over the fine paper, the remarkable golden print, the embossed family crest. It's an invitation he cannot turn down. Or perhaps he simply does not want to. He rather likes the notion of himself being a fairly capricious creature, compelled by nothing but his own fancies. And while essentially every event of the social season is optional to attend, there are some he would rather not miss, and a dinner party in honour of Darrington's daughter is certainly one of them. Even though it will take place at the family's country home, and Coward, on principle, hates leaving London.

Though once the coach arrives at Hargreave Hall, he has to admit, the residence is actually worth a visit, a magnificent manor in mostly Jacobean style, situated in one of the most beautiful gardens Coward has ever seen. Adelia, the débutante-daughter, turns out to be rather plain however, an unremarkable, pale girl to whom not even an exquisite dress and elaborate hairstyle manage to lend an air of allure - which doesn't prevent Coward from being extraordinarily charming. 

There is nothing like the gratitude of a plain girl, he thinks, as his lips linger unseemly long on the back of Adelia's hand; the dampness of his breath must be begun to seep through the delicate fabric of her glove, judging from the way she starts to tremble, faintly, barely noticeable, but not imperceivable enough to evade Coward's attention. He straightens, still holding her hand, and gives her his most radiant smile, relishing the way she blushes. “Charmed”, he says, and indeed she is.

Apart from him (and married couples and elderly relatives) there are several other eligible bachelors invited to this gathering, all of whom are at least his age or older. All wealthy and influential men, though hardly of impeccable reputation. Certainly, there is Frasier, perhaps not from an old line, but at least a family of good repute, and Winthrope, also known as a rather nice chap, even though perhaps a mite old for such a young wife, and Keaton of course, recently widowed, but otherwise not the worst match imaginable. But there is also Saville, whose family made their money as slave-traders, Morgan who is notorious for his scandalous affairs, Reed who is reportedly a little too fond of gambling, and, for all the saints in heaven, Lord Blackwood, who is infamous even among the occultists of Coward's acquaintance, and who is rumoured to be one of the most unsavoury characters in London's high society, hardly a gentleman at all. Recently, for example, he dared to make an appearance at the opera with an oriental courtesan in his company.

Darrington ought to be ashamed to stage his daughter's introduction to society as such an obvious meat market. What on earth would make him consider these men as husbands for his daughter? All that favours them is the fact they are pecunious, some of them richer than others, but all very well off, so there is only one logical explanation: It must be about the money. 

What a marvellous revelation, Coward thinks as they sit down for dinner, eager to uncover more of this poorly kept secret, for such information can always be used as leverage. It is the kind of knowledge that serves as the foundation of Coward's influence. Eloquence and money can only bring one so far. So, he wonders, what might be at the heart of it all. Gambling debts? A serious miscalculation in business matters? Losses at the stock market? Something of this kind, he supposes, but then the question arises of how bad it actually is – is this dinner party the last attempt to avert bankruptcy? Is Darrington desperate enough to sell his daughter to the highest bidder? What would it cost him, to have her just for one night, Coward muses. He cannot suggest that, his good reputation is too valuable, but a man like Henry Blackwood could.

He watches him, as he sits across the table, prim and stern, in his pristine but sombre attire, almost like a priest, as if proving wrong all rumours about his disgraceful way of living. His butcher's hands so civilised with the silverware, so careful, nearly tender how he dissects the meat on his plate. Coward follows the way of the fork as it is lifted to Blackwood's mouth, as it disappears behind these hard, humourless lips in an almost sensual manner, as Blackwood's tongue darts out, unconsciously, just the slightest bit, to trace the taste of the food, savour its residue on his lips, before he remembers propriety and takes the napkin to dab at his mouth.

Coward is mesmerised. 

He imagines these lips on Adelia's pale flesh, imagines them covering it with open-mouthed kisses and sucking bruises into its marble whiteness, vivid flowers of passion to bloom under the fragile skin.

And Blackwood catches him staring, and the corners of his mouth curl just the tiniest bit, into the ghost of a smile, and Coward quickly averts his gaze.

The evening progresses without much excitement; the food is decent although Coward's palate is used to more exotic flavours, and Adelia - who has unsurprisingly taken a fancy to him - is every bit as dull as her appearance implies. However much they have tried to dress her up as a young lady, her childish demeanour tempts Coward several times to call for the governess to put her to bed. It is outrageous to marry her off, for he is convinced she is still playing with dolls.

As for the reason of Darrington's misfortune, he is still none the wiser when the evening is drawing to a close. Darrington was clever enough not to let his daughter in on his plan (who would have told Coward in an instant if she had known), and if one of the others is privy to the information, they keep it to themselves as well, but Coward has the means to acquire the knowledge, now that he is on the scent, so he does not deem his journey entirely wasted.

Also he is too satisfied to complain, since Darrington's brandy is running comfortably warm through his veins when he finally retires. 

The guest wing is vast. No wonder it is ridiculously expensive to maintain this house, he thinks as he walks down a seemingly endless corridor. A good deal of the lamps have already been extinguished (possibly as a measure of economy?) and the rest throw eerily flickering shadows on the walls. Perhaps that is the reason he does not see him coming.

A hand suddenly catches his arm and drags him into a small alcove, spins him around, so he is backed against the wall. His surprised yelp is stifled by another large hand pressing down on his mouth. It all happens so fast, he barely has the time to be properly frightened.

“Hush”, Blackwood says, his eyes glowing in the dark, and Coward struggles, even though his mind must have already caught on to the fact, that he does not stand a chance. Blackwood is so much taller than him, and also quite a bit stronger, it appears, not to forget heavier, and he is utterly trapped. 

Blackwood leans down, his breath searing against the tender skin of Coward's neck: “I shall let go, if you promise not to scream.”

He nods, paralysed with fear.

The hand over his mouth disappears, but before Coward can heave a sigh of relief, it is replaced with hungry lips, sealing the upwelling cry of protest inside his chest, and Blackwood is crowding him further against the wall, pinning him with his weight, and Coward's stomach twists, when he feels the arousal pressing against him, obvious, ravenous, merciless desire, that leaves no doubt about Blackwood's intentions. 

“Please”, he whimpers into Blackwood's mouth, again and again, whenever the tongue thrusting into him allows for a sound. 

But Blackwood only stops when he has profusely ravished Coward's mouth, and Coward's lips are swollen and bitten from the unwanted attention, bloody even, and his breath comes in short, anxious pants. 

“Ah yes, I knew you would like that, when I saw how you were looking at me over dinner”, Blackwood hisses. “You're practically begging for it, you pretty little slut.”

And Coward only shakes his head, silently, mute with terror, the _No-no-no-please_ stuck in his throat, his whole body heavy as lead, all he can do is clutch helplessly at the lapels of Blackwood's dinner jacket, while Blackwood bites and sucks at his neck, viciously, and hope against all hope, he'll reconsider, grow tired of this and let go of him and won't...

But then Blackwood's hand begins to nestle with the buttons of his trousers, and Coward's stomach sinks, and at last he finds his voice again: “Not here”, he pleads, “please. If someone sees...” And as a matter of fact, this seems to convince Blackwood, for he gives an affirmative grunt and hauls him swiftly into the next room, like a predator would drag its prey into its lair.

It is Coward's own room, it turns out, which makes this even more terrible. If someone catches us, they will think I invited him in, Coward thinks, they will think I wanted this. The thought is so dreadful, it nearly gives him the strength to fight, but then Blackwood is upon him again, positively ripping his clothes off him, tearing at the fabric until it gives, clawing at his skin, sinking his teeth into the flesh he uncovers, snarling like an animal, and Coward surrenders. 

He lies still, after Blackwood's pushed him on the bed, and watches silently out of fear-darkened eyes how Blackwood opens his trousers, how he takes out his cock – long, thick, stiff flesh – and strokes it, displaying what awaits him, and something in Coward twitches and twists, dread and a sick anticipation, and it is only when Blackwood leans over him, still almost fully clothed, and places his hand over his thigh in a mock-gesture of gentleness, that he realises that he is hard himself, and the embarrassment about this involuntary, treacherous response of his body makes him blush like the morning sky.

“Didn't I tell you, you'd like it?”, Blackwood purrs, and holds him down, when he tries to turn over. “No”, he says, his voice irresistible as the law of God “I want you to look at me when I fuck you.”  
He kneels between Coward's legs and bends over him, looming above like a force of nature. “Open your mouth”, he says, and Coward is obedient in his terror, opens wide and let two fingers be shoved inside, be pushed against his tongue, further and further, until he gags and retches and drools, and when Blackwood finds them satisfyingly wet, dripping with saliva, he withdraws them to set them to better use. 

Against every expectation they feel marvellous as they violate him, just the right amount of stretch and fill and stimulation, and he can't help but buck into their strokes, suddenly quite eager, and he must have made some sort of sound, for Blackwood admonishes him, “Quiet”, he says, and then he is over him, and pressing inside, raw burn of too much and too soon, and Coward forgets all resolve, and struggles, writhes, twists and turns in blind animal-panic, but to no avail. His resistance makes Blackwood thrust home only more vigorously, burying himself deep in Coward's body

“Keep still, lest you hurt yourself”, he warns, his own breathing also ragged now, his voice rough, nearly as rough as his hand clutching a fistful of Coward's hair, yanking, drawing him into the most beautiful arc, strung tight like a bow, until Coward, apart from the slight tremble of tension in his limbs, moves no more. 

And Blackwood stares down at him, with something like appreciation in his poisonous golden eyes, and Coward realises how he must look, a picture of despoilment: naked and flushed, bruised and penetrated, and his own swollen cock bobbing leaking and wanton against his stomach. “Please”, he wants to whisper, but it comes out as moan, lewd and sinful, and Blackwood only laughs and pushes into him, again and again, relentlessly, picking up speed, until, at last, Coward sees stars and comes, untouched and unprecedentedly violent, in a fit of uncontrollable shudders, the slickness of his seed the undeniable proof of his shame, and Blackwood follows him a couple of thrusts later with a low, tortured groan, and spends himself deep inside him.

He must have passed out for a moment, because when he comes back to his senses, Blackwood has already straightened his clothes, and sits on the edge of the bed, immaculate and unblinking, as if nothing has happened. 

“And, was it everything you had hoped for?”, he asks.

“Everything and more”, Coward says, suspecting he must positively glow with satisfaction. “You were outright feral, Henry. Just look at me, I'm an absolute wreck.” And he leans over to kiss Blackwood enthusiastically on the lips.

“The most beautiful wreck I have ever laid eyes on.”

Coward lets himself drop back onto the cushions and stretches in the most seductive manner, he can will his tired limbs into. “Pity you cannot stay.” The pout is rather pronounced in his voice, he's accustomed to Blackwood rarely refusing to indulge him.

But this time Blackwood only smiles mildly. “It would not be proper to be found in your bed, Daniel”, he says. “Besides, I do still have a tryst with a certain lady, that has already cost me a fortune.”

Coward's eyes go wide with disbelief. “Oh no, Henry, you wouldn't-- How have you--” He gives a huff of exasperation. “Sometimes I really think you can read my mind.”

Blackwood smile of leniency widens into something decidedly more wicked. “Perhaps I can. And you can always join me, if you like. I don't think this is a case in which propriety counts anymore.”


	6. Seduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Coward speaks, he wields his own kind of magic.

When Coward speaks, he wields his own kind of magic. 

His voice is soft as he addresses the House, and yet it carries with ease through the falling silence. There is something about him that inevitably commands people's attention. Perhaps, if they were honest, they would have to admit to be ensnared by his beauty, which can only be subdued, not hidden by his solemn attire. But they seem utterly fooled by the notion of pious austerity his appearance invokes. His black suit is as sombre as it is pristine, the stiff white shirt spotless, the cravat wound meticulously around his delicate neck, not a hair out of place. A humble servant of Her Majesty, a devout son of Britain. 

But when he speaks, he cannot disguise the iridium-gleam in his eyes, the blaze of passion that shines through his pale skin, drips off the curve of his lips with religious fervour. He is a master of the craft. His words are well chosen, carefully laid out, the argument and style and delivery flawless, a perfect combination of rhetoric's five canons. A performance like this must have caused Plato to allege oratory to be but means of deceit, Blackwood muses as he watches Coward unfolding his powers of persuasion. The snake in the garden could not have been more accomplished. It is an art of seduction how he reels his audience in, every sentence a barb, every reasoning a fish hook in their mind. They do not see the snare beneath the honey-smoothness of his speech, do not notice that he spins a web, beautiful and perilous threads, entangling their thoughts and twisting their believes. 

And no one but Blackwood pays attention to the smoky undertow of his tone, the faint roughness of calluses catching on silk. He will make Coward read to him, he decides and then spends the rest of the session thinking about which works he would like to listen to – which words he would want to hear from this pretty eloquent mouth, and he can't quite make up his mind about it. French poetry perhaps, or German philosophy, Tolstoy or Ovid, Marlowe or Milton, Dante or Blake...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually spend some time musing about Blackwood's library and also about what Coward would ultimately choose (because I have no doubt, it would be his decision in the end) - absurdly long, I might add, for this being only a snippet - but I came to no real conclusion. Wilde perhaps? Which would be in a way perfect of course, but also tricky, because I'm vaguely planning to write a crossover-snippet with Dorian Gray for... eh... reasons, so this would cause a fictional-realities-clash. However, these are the truly important questions everyone has to bother their pretty heads about!!


	7. Study

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackwood is absorbed in his studies - you know how it is, everything is going great, you're really getting some work done, ultimate realisation of the nature of things and the world and everything is about to strike, when suddenly libido emerges Venus-like from the sea of the unconscious and knocks on the doors of your mind, demanding entrance. Well, in this case it comes in the pretty shape of Daniel Coward. (Not that Blackwood would know anything about procrastination...)
> 
> Sweet Daniel is needy and masochistic and all sorts of desirable. :)
> 
>  **Warning:** mentions of self-harm

Coward will never be able to fully comprehend how Henry can brood over a book for so long. Over _one_ wretched book. It's not that he cannot relate to the burning thirst for knowledge (knowledge is power after all) – but he himself would simply consult more books, interpretations, perhaps even employ some scholar, if he was stuck, while Henry is adamant about relying exclusively on his own wits and intellect to uncover the obscure meanings of a scripture.

“It is too important to entrust it to anyone else”, Blackwood keeps saying every time Coward complains that he has been hiding away in his study for a week, and he won't even leave his desk for their usual dalliances, so Coward is forced to resort to more creative means to secure his attention.

He has learned rather quickly that Blackwood does not respond well to touch when he's working. All the ostentatiously casual, feathery caresses of his shoulder, arms and back, the brush of lips over his neck – hot and open-mouthed and needy – so obviously designed to seduce him, will merely earn him a stern look and an impatient wave of a hand, as if he's an annoying fly to be swatted.

“Can't you see that I'm quite busy, Daniel?”, Blackwood growls, and the feral undertone in his indignation does not help one bit to calm Coward down.

So one day, when the crawling sensation under his skin has become too much to bear, he decides to resort to more desperate measures. He sneaks into Blackwood's study, does not even knock, just slips through the door and tiptoes to one of the armchairs by the fireplace. 

And just as expected, Blackwood does not even bother to look up from his work. “What is it this time, Daniel?”, he asks with a tone of slight exasperation, eyes still glued to the text.

“Nothing”, Coward says, “I just want to keep you company for a while, if you don't object.”

Blackwood's eyes dart up for a moment then, take in Coward as he stands next to globe, running his fingers absent-mindedly over the small world, as if grooming an animal. A gesture that does not fail to earn him an amused smile, before Blackwood returns his attention to his work.

“All right then. You can stay if you don't expect me to interrupt my studies”, he says, the nose already buried in the book again, and thus misses the small, almost victorious grin that ghosts over Coward's face.

Coward pours himself a glass of gin, and settles down into the armchair. It is _very_ comfortable, with its lush upholstery and the soft velvet, and will be even more so, once he'll be rid of his shoes and socks. Coward kicks them off, then raises his fingers to loosen the silk around his neck, that silly symbol of propriety, which so often feels as suffocating as a hangman's noose. Off with it, and with the jacket, and the waistcoat, too. 

His eyes never leave Blackwood behind his desk, the slight crease in his brow, the way his fingers curl around the pen, how he guides it over the paper, covering it in his generous, purposeful scrawl.  
I wish I was his parchment, Coward thinks as his own hand touches the sensitive skin of his neck. He has been, on occasion, and the memory makes his heart beat faster, the pulse an excited flutter under the paper-thin skin that remembers the sting of a blade so well, the burn of magic, the bite of teeth, the soothing trail of Blackwood's fingers.

Coward resists the urge to close his eyes as he retraces their way over his neck and shoulder and the spot in between that still bears the mark of Blackwood's passion, even though it is fading now, the once vivid colour barely noticeable anymore. Coward presses his fingers into it, hard, but the pain is almost gone, too. 

He imagines Blackwood fastening his mouth to that very place, sucking so violently, he nearly breaks skin, sucks until Coward's nerves are on fire and he whimpers from the sheer delightful agony of it, then laves the bruise with his tongue, gently, as if it would help to alleviate the burning sensation. But it only makes it worse, makes it spread, the flame of it running through Coward's veins, filling him, swelling him, until his skin feels tight and taut, the desire crawling under it like bugs and he longs for a way to let it out. Claw through the skin before it bursts, slice it open with a blade, to relieve the tension.

These are the thoughts gathering in his mind like the incoming tide, until it is swimming with the filthiest pictures, ideas that raise a blush of shame on his cheeks, the churning blood pushing to the surface. But Coward allows himself only the slightest, smallest touches, gentle brushes of his fingertips against the heated flesh, envisions them to be Henry's, as they dance over his skin; obviously his own hand cannot evoke the same kind of sparks and shivers to run down his spine, but his mind tries to make up for it all the more fervently. It's enough to arouse him beyond anything he could ever achieve without Henry's presence, who is after all the sun to Coward's existence, the blaze to which his own burning is only a poor imitation, a weak reflection attempting to share in its glory.

At the desk, Blackwood has lifted the pen to his mouth, tapping it against his lower lip, apparently lost in thought, but Coward stares transfixed at the black ebonite, and how it is almost kissed, imagines how Henry would use it to drag it over his own lip, allow him to suckle at it, a dark, twisted sort of affection in his eyes as always when he indulges Coward's in one of his little kinks. How the warmth of it would pour over Coward like a blanket of sunshine, and he could wear it like a king's mantle, for it is nothing less. But Coward is too natural a creature to be satisfied by such ethereal honour, he wants to bathe in that love, until it stings like nettles, until it scorches his skin, sears its way to his very core and eats him alive. It is a mindless animal hunger that dominates him, that makes him lick and suck at his own fingers and press the heel of his hand against the sinful proof of arousal between his legs, that sweet throb of desire. 

He wants, no he needs to close his eyes, let himself be swallowed by the dark, by the sensation of his touch.

It is the sharp rap of a pen on wood that jerks him back into reality.

He must have made a sound or something, because now Henry is looking at him, tar-black eyes and an unreadable expression. Not fond this time. And also not amused.  
“What do you think you're doing, Daniel?” His voice is level, impassive, which is never a good sign.

But the pang of fear he experiences at the possibility of Henry's anger, only adds to the sick feeling of pleasure that is pooling in the pit of his stomach, at the base of his spine, this pivot of his wanton existence.  
“I eh- I enjoy your company”, he says, stumbling over the words. Deep inside him a dark emptiness is unfolding, its pulse heady in the thrum of his blood.

Blackwood taps his pen on the desk again, once, twice, then he lets it roll from his fingers and leans back. “Well then, don't let _me_ interrupt _you_ in your activities”, he says. There is an odd glint in his eyes, that makes Coward reconsider.

“Henry, I--” 

But Blackwood only indicates him to be silent with a wave of his hand – and his hands are _made_ for regal gestures like that! “Go on then”, he says, “I'd be inconsolable if I was the reason that kept you from accomplishing your task, which is clearly of the utmost importance.”

The words make it painfully obvious, how silly Coward's antic really is...  
“I'm so sorry, Henry, I didn't--”

“Too late for apologies, Daniel, the damage is done, I am already distracted. Now, spare me the pointless babble, and at least make it worth my while.”

It's been a long time that Coward was afraid to fail under Blackwood's scrutiny. He has learned to trust the eagerness of his body. But now – now he suddenly not so sure anymore. What if-- the thought lingers under Blackwood's hard stare, makes him shiver, what if he can't--

“Please don't start with the thinking now, Daniel. I was under the impression, I was to be enticed by a display of your wantonness, so that's what I expect to see.” The way he folds his arms over his chest forbids all further objection.

Coward's hands are heavy with the weight of Henry's gaze as he returns to touching himself. He runs his fingers over his face, from the sharp angle of his cheekbone, over the curve of his lips, down the long line of his throat. The lower it travels, the more is his whole body rising into its caress, the animal in him stretching to the surface. But the touch of his hands belong to Henry now, and he would be furious, if he proved himself unable to restrain his beastly urges.

Beady eyes follow the path of his fingers, cold, hard obsidian, and still they burn, as scratch into his skin with the need of Coward's nails, leaving traces of ownership, drawing blood until Blackwood clicks his tongue in disapproval, and Coward moves on.

His hands tremble when he undoes the buttons of his trousers and dip into coarse curls. Steady now, Henry dictates with his unwavering gaze, and Coward is so thankful for his guidance, for he is itching with a violent desire to grasp and pull and squeeze, and he knows he would hurt himself if Henry wasn't watching, but he is and therefore he is gentle with himself, trails the finger lightly over his cock, pressing only softly, gingerly into the sensitive flesh, nothing more than a hint of nails, before he allows himself to close his hand around it. 

Why is it, that often people think something is only precious when it is scarce, Coward used to wonder, for all the abundance of Blackwood's attention he never, never gets enough of him. On the contrary, sometimes being without him feels like trying to breathe under water. And moments like this, when Blackwood's presence is surrounding him so completely, so intimately, make him dizzy with the rush of oxygen. He gasps for air, his breath shivering, vibrating in his throat with needy anticipation.

He would love to be kissed now, a hungry tongue licking the pants from his lips, a strong hand buried in his hair, drawing his head back, just so far it's not entirely comfortable, that he is stretched out for the caress of possessive hands.

As he strokes for the first time, from tip to root, his fingers circling and twisting around himself, his body goes rigid, tense, and his tongue curls against the roof of his mouth from the sheer delight of it. And is it appreciation he sees in Henry's eyes?

He tries to go slow, bites his lips with the effort of it, but it only makes everything worse, the touch of his hand so awful in its delicacy, so unbearable, and he feels himself being wound tight and tighter, drawn so taut, he'll soon snap, break apart, and he mustn't, not yet.

“Henry”, he breathes, as if Blackwood were not watching him, Argus-eyed, as if he were not quite capable of expressing his wishes. As if Coward didn't know which were the plans, Blackwood never shared. He will not let him know what he expects of him, not before he decides it is time. And Coward should heed that knowledge. But he can't. Not when his self-control has grown brittle with need.

“Please, Henry.”

But Blackwood does not answer, takes the pleading as part of the show, and Coward should leave it at that, should not attempt to get his permission, for it will earn him most certainly denial instead. Only the tension is too much, is intolerable. He cannot stay like this for as long as Blackwood will have him, he is already raw with desire scratching at his insides, his own hand a brand on his skin. He has been such a fool to land himself in this trouble.

“Please, may I--” His words become husky, more moans than pleas, and he is aware, that they will soon descend into incoherent babble, then merely whimpers, sighs, the hitching of breath. He will be reduced to this base creature, that would be lost, adrift, were it not securely leashed by Blackwood's will, absolutely at his mercy.

It's all he has left to hope for.


	8. Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Probably a side effect of Alec d'Urberville - crazy Christians are so easily tortured, and Satanism seems so much more reasonable.  
> Not really compliant with my general take, but since I decided against posting every snippet on its own, I just add it here.
> 
> Warning: mention of self-harm

It runs in his veins, grains of sharp-edged iron, grating, chafing until he is all raw inside and the shame burning under his skin. 

_Guilt, guilt, guilt._

And no matter how much he scratches, or how deep, nails blunt or ragged, finger like claws, he will not get rid of it. He cannot tear it out, not with a whip, not even with a blade – and by God has he tried! When the skin cracks open under the leather, when the blood wells up beneath the knife, his breath stills, and for a moment he is at peace, free of the craving. But it lasts only as long as he watches the thick red flow out of him, its vividness turning to rust so fast, too fast, filthy streaks of corroded virtue that stain his skin. And yet it's not enough, never enough. The sickness still roots inside him. Festers.

At night, every night, the devil comes to visit him in his dreams, dark of eye and smooth of tongue, and he knows he should withstand, just as Christ refused to give in to temptation, but he is weak, and Satan is beautiful, and the promises he whispers into his ear are oh so sweet, sweeter than anything he could have imagined, sweeter than they have any right to be for someone who knows of the threat of damnation. But in these moments, in these wicked dreams, he does not care about burning in hell, cares for nothing but his present desire. And when _he_ reaches for him, with elegant hands, his flesh is ever so treacherous, rises eagerly, stiff and wanton, and begs for his touch, and it is also his resolve that falters, his mind that prays for mercy, for release, heedless the consequence. 

Sometimes he wakes, not yet covered in the stickiness of his sin, but still painfully hard, his whole body aching, even the weight of the blankets unbearable, and he wonders if he might be caught in the pits already, if these are already the flames of inferno, licking at his insides, searing, eating at his soul. He wants it, _needs_ it so much, and yet he cannot, _must not_ touch himself, not like that, not seal his ruin entirely by his own hand. 

He lies motionless, his breath like a storm, his heart like thunder in the silence. Waits. 

The words echo in every tick of the clock, every imagined upstroke of a hand.  
“There is no God but you”, _he_ said, “nothing to believe in but yourself. _You are everything_.”  
He remembers the voice, golden as honey, a caress almost, and the tension throbs like lightning inside him, dense and viscid and sultry, filling him, simmering. It swells with every heartbeat, pulses through him, the sickness is alive, is devouring him.

“Please”, he begs, “please”, small, desperate whimpers in the silence, imploring deliverance, but there is no one to hear his pleading but himself.


	9. Holy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reverent footman. Jealous Coward. Bottom!Blackwood. Rough Sex. Romance. Awww.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2015 is drawing to a close, the darkness is upon us, I need to clear all the stuff out of my virtual drawers lest it will clog up my brain forever. (Yeah, foolish me still believes to get rid of this wretched obsession one day...*sobs silently*)
> 
> Another instalment in my ongoing series  
> FUCK YOU, I USE ALL THE FUCKING ADVERBS I WANT!  
> no rape tho, more like fluff and romance - considering

It's late when he comes home, almost morning, and while the night seems to have gone on forever, it is still not drawing to a close, is nowhere near the soft woollen grey of dawn, and Blackwood is brimming with it. Saturated with hours upon hours of a winter blackness that has been seeping through the leather of his coat, through skin and muscle right down to the bone, a graveyard silence numbing the limbs, yet whetting the mind into something bright and keen and as sharp-edged as shards of glass.

A gust of wind sweeps him over the threshold – past the footman who answered the door and is swift to close it behind him, locking out the relentless cold – and straight to the salon. A room that at his command is kept warm like a hothouse, his own pandemonium of dark wood and flickering lights cast by fire, gas lamps and candles, shadows dancing on the blood-red tapestry, as if in welcome of their returned master.

The footman on night duty, hurries to help him out of his coat, obeisant in a way that never fails to please him. Blackwood graces him with a rare smile as he hands over his hat and gloves, which causes the boy to glow with satisfaction. Such an eager little thing. A perfect choice of a servant.

“Were there any messages in my absence, Julian?”

“No, your Lordship, none. But...,” the boy hesitates, “Lord Coward is here. Mr Kent told him you would return late, but he insisted on waiting for you.”

“Did he indeed,” Blackwood remarks with a mixture of amusement and impatience. It is not as unusual for Coward to come by his house when he's out on business as Julian makes it sound. In fact has become more of a rule than an exception by now, for they are not to be seen in public together and it's only at Blackwood's home that they can count on the discretion of the servants. And as a matter of fact Blackwood has even issued some kind of a magna carta on how to treat his most honoured guest, a set of rules to clarify Coward's status in his house. And still some of the servants seem unable to think of him as anything but an intruder.

In part it is his own fault, Blackwood thinks, he has spoilt them too much in his attempts to secure their loyalty, and now they feel entitled to his affection, unwilling even to share it with a stranger, and for some this more true than for others. The young footman is the most prominent example for this sentiment, it shows in every line of his pretty face, a slight jealousy mingling with boundless admiration. And while Blackwood wholeheartedly approves of the latter, the former is too likely to cause trouble to be ignored. All fondness aside, he would be a fool to tolerate such behaviour. It is unseemly for a servant, and yet-- and yet he cannot bring himself to punish him until he has given offence. Not when Julian is always so eager to please.

Just like now when, despite the lateness of the hour, he is overflowing with deference: “Do you want me to get you some supper, Milord?” he inquires, “Or are you about to retire? I could fetch Mr Kent to help you undress, if you wish... or I could myself... if you allowed--” His cheeks are rosy and his eyes glitter with hardly concealed excitement. Julian has already acted as Blackwood's valet on several occasions, mostly in pretence of not wanting to wake Kent to perform his duty, and every time offered himself blatantly; and while Blackwood certainly does appreciate this eagerness to be taken advantage of, he does not like feeling obliged to follow up on every offer.

“I'll have some whiskey. Then you can go to bed. It is already late.”

“But, if Milord wishes anything else, I am not tired, I would not mind...” The gaze is hopeful beyond all proper conduct, and Blackwood thinks of what Coward said, only a few days previously: “However you inspire such devotion,” and there was a certain smugness to his expression as he opened the buttons of Blackwood's shirt. “Tell me, Henry, what did you do to make your poor servants become so besotted with you.” But instead of a response he only caught Coward's wrists in his hands and kissed him silent.

“That won't be necessary, Julian, once I have that drink, I will be entirely satisfied.”

“At least allow me to get your shoes and prepare you a hot bath for your feet. It is such a nasty weather outside.”

And Blackwood graciously gives in. Who in their right mind would turn down such a proposal?  
He accepts the drink, liquid flame in the heavy crystal, sunshine in his mouth, and watches the boy as he kneels to unlace his shoes, pull them off, free his feet from the socks. How carefully he rolls up the trouser legs and then, reverently, lifts the feet and places them into a basin of warm water.

Blackwood can't suppress a pleased sigh when the heat closes around him, it is almost a moan, and Julian looks at him with unconcealed pride. He is truly delectable with his honey hair and sky blue eyes and fine features, and Blackwood is just about to change his mind, when he hears the soft pitter-patter of naked feet on the parquet floor.

“Thank you, Julian,” he says gently, reaching out to brush his fingers over the young man's cheek. The combined heat of fireplace, foot bath and alcohol has begun to melt the numbness from his limbs but also taken the edge of his mind. He feels oddly lenient. “Now go to sleep.” He gives him a smile, and leans back more comfortably on the settee just as Coward enters the room, bare-footed and shirt hanging open, hair tousled, the very picture of temptation. He passes the footman without as much as looking at him, eyes fixed on Blackwood.

“Daniel, what a pleasant surprise you're still awake. Will you join me for a drink?”

Coward waits for Julian to leave the room before he answers.

“I have been waiting for you.” There is something queer to his voice, Blackwood cannot quite place. Not exactly sulky or annoyed, rather a subdued sort of anger lying sharp and cutting beneath Coward's usual politeness. 

“I am glad,” Blackwood replies for lack of anything more eloquent to say, and takes his feet out of the basin, carefully pushing it aside with his ankle. It's not how he want to face Coward, not when he is in a temper. He surly will be more at ease with his soles firmly planted on the plush carpet.

Coward comes closer in what reminds of a cat's prowl, a litheness that makes Blackwood want to touch him, despite the reasonable chance to get scratched for his audacity. He sometimes forgets how Coward is dangerous, not a tame pet at all, and how his submission is a gift, not a right, not even _his_ privilege. He does not like being touched when he is in such a mood (which multiplies Blackwood's desire to do so of course) and promptly swats his hands away when Blackwood attempts to grasp for his hips, as he climbs over him, his legs framing Blackwood's thighs. 

“You should be,” he whispers, which is perhaps an uncharacteristic thing to say, even when he is in this state of mind, but Blackwood does not dwell on it, he already caught by his gaze, ensnared by Daniel's eyes, dark from drugs or sleep or lust, Blackwood does not know which, but he does not care much either. It just makes him want to kiss him, to reach for Coward's neck, pull him closer in a gesture of dominance, of ownership, like he so often does, but Coward catches his wrist with his left hand and stops him. He is surprisingly strong and Blackwood indulges him for the moment.

“No,” Coward says, leans in and places his right hand over Blackwood's throat, just enough pressure to make a point. 

Blackwood tenses. “Daniel,” he warns, but there is something strange about Coward tonight, something wild, and it is not only irritating but also exciting.

“Drink up, Henry,” Coward says, loosening his finger a bit, and Blackwood finds himself obliging. He raises the glass to his lips, drains it – the whiskey a warm burn in his mouth, then gone – sets it down onto the table to his left. 

Coward does not move an inch, only stares at him, unwavering. 

“Happy?” Blackwood purrs as he leans forward, against the hand circling his throat, lips slightly opened in anticipation of a kiss, but Coward's fingers only squeeze tighter and Blackwood would protest, if that instant Coward wasn't sliding his legs further apart, pressing down on him, and he hadn't to fight the urge to buck up his hips, seeking more friction, more of this delightful weight against his hardening cock.

“What is it?” he asks, bewildered by the sudden roughness of his own voice.

“Sometimes I think everyone owns you more than I do.” Coward grinds down against him, and this time Blackwood cannot quite swallow the moan. His hands move for Coward's hips but again Coward won't let him. “Don't,” he says, tightening his fingers warningly around Blackwood's neck.

“No one _owns_ me, Daniel.”

“Perhaps you just don't want to admit it,” Coward whispers, his mouth so close, Blackwood longs to capture it in a kiss, but he also understands that it is somehow necessary to play along.

“Enlighten me.”

“All your business partners, allies, even the bloody footman gets to spend more time with you than I. And yet, it is me, who wastes the evening waiting for you, like some bored housewife longing for her husband to come home.”

“So that's what this is all about?” Blackwood laughs but stops at once when he sees Coward's expression. 

Abruptly Coward lets go of him. Though before Blackwood can begin to worry, he says: “Unbutton your shirt, Henry.” 

The words are a hiss, almost a threat, as if somehow Blackwood had to reckon with retribution for his neglect, instead of – probably – a reward. Coward is always most avid when they have quarrelled, and Blackwood never enjoys him more than in these moments of unbridled passion– as long as Coward _wants_ him, he still has the upper hand in this. His lips curl into a smile that is equally lewd and confident of victory when he raises his hands to undo the cravat first, teasingly, then he opens his waistcoat, after that the shirt.

The bared skin glows golden in the soft light and Coward's gaze lingers on it for a moment, before he seeks Blackwood's eyes again. “Trousers,” he says and lifts his hips to give Blackwood room to manoeuvre. 

Blackwood licks his lips as he unbuttons his trousers and wriggles out of them in what might not be his usual poise but still as dignified as possible in his position, to clear the way for Coward who promptly closes his hand around his cock. 

It's an electric charge, a shock running through his whole body, and he sucks in a sharp breath. 

Coward looks pleased for once; he does not move, just curls his fingers around him and enjoys the impatient throb against the palm of his hand. 

“You see, Henry,” he says with a strange little smile, “this is pretty much how you have me all the time – waiting and wanton and ready. Only instead of appreciating my desire for you, you choose to lavish your attention on servant boys and business associates--”, he places a silencing finger on Blackwood's lips to smother potential protest, “far beyond what might be required.” 

His right hand is still wrapped around Blackwood's shaft, who savours the pressure of Coward's fingers, of his thumb grazing ever so lightly over the mushroom head of his cock, along the sensitive slit, a promise-- 

“Tell me, does it arouse you to have me at your beck and call, to know you can indulge me whenever you feel like it and deny me with the same casualness?”

Blackwood would have laughed had it not been for the unfathomable darkness of Coward's stare, this cold, desperate winter hunger longing to strip him to the bone. But what is he to say? “Have I ever denied you, Daniel?” _Outside of our little games_ , he means to add but doesn't. Because even then he's never acted from any other motive than to fulfil Coward's most twisted desires, has delved into the darkest corners of his soul, only to give him the pleasure he deserves.

Coward tilts his head, watches him with this glint in the eye, desirous, playful, cruel, his hand tightening around Blackwood, too much to be pleasant, but Blackwood allows it, concentrates on the pain blurring into pleasure, concentrates on his breathing that inevitably grows more ragged, digs his fingers into the upholstery of the settee, bites his lip when Coward begins to stroke him.

Harsh, rough pulls. More of a chastisement than a caress. But nonetheless his moans are soon barely concealed by his gasps, then indistinguishable. Delicious friction of familiar fingers, that know so well how to touch him, that can play him with a musician's skill, just the right tempo and pressure and twist. 

Coward waits until his self-control falters and Blackwood begins to move in rhythm with the fist around him, before he kisses him, famished and greedy and possessive, and Blackwood does not mind in the least, would allow himself to be devoured in this moment if that was what Coward wanted, just loses himself in the touch. He scarcely registers how Coward's left hand goes from clutching at his neck and shoulder to a possessive sprawl, pushing him just so, he somehow comes to lie on the sofa with Coward above him, hand still around his cock, still moving, and he is almost mindless from the pleasure of it. All he can think is _more, more, more_.

“Let me have you, Henry,” Coward whispers, frenzied. 

He is so beautiful, it is nearly impossible to bear, his very own devil in his very own hell, and of course Blackwood cannot deny him but nods, wide-eyed, lip bitten raw, and spreads his thighs willingly for slick fingers. He moans as they slide into him – feverish, purposeful – overwhelmed by the sensation, but also by his own eagerness for this, for the feel of Coward inside him, for the intimacy of the act.

Coward is still angry when he pushes into him, ferocious, but Blackwood doesn't mind, on the contrary, he welcomes the passion, digs his fingers into Coward's hips and arse and back to pull him closer, buries his nails in the tenderness of his skin, intent to draw blood. They share the pain as they share the pleasure, dull and sharp, cutting and blunt, every flavour of sensation their animal bodies grace them with. Coward breath-taking in his fury, a snarling beast on top of him, and Blackwood laughs with the boundless joy of it, a deep, guttural sound, he has to pay for dearly, but he gladly accepts the price for his unseemly amusement, takes every punishing thrust, every scratch and bite with abandon, asks for _more_ and _harder_. And Coward is only too happy to oblige.

There is not much finesse in their coupling, but all the urgency Blackwood could hope for, a desperation that betrays how absolutely Coward belongs to him, body and soul, how he wants to own him with the same fervour Blackwood feels himself, yearns to tear down all that separates them, become one flesh, one mind, and if it means being ripped apart at the seams and stitched back together. 

“Do you still doubt?” he whispers against Coward's blood-stained lips as he stills above him, strung to breaking point, so close, and relishes the sound that escapes him then, this sharp exhale of breath, that is almost a sob.

__


	10. Experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackwood tests a theory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An attempt to make up for my shameful neglect of nipples. ;)  
> Because obviously it seemed like a good idea to fight writer's block by writing porn. I can say, I suffered nearly as much as poor Coward through this. (Why do I do this to myself, I ask) And my browser history is now a state secret (I hereby deny the rumour that this is only a transcript of xtube-clips). Everyone who would get their fingers on it, would be condemned to a slow and painful death. :P

Late afternoon hangs drowsily over the bedroom. It is quiet but for the logs crackling in the fireplace, and the sonorous sound of Blackwood's voice as he reads the newest Russian novel for Coward's entertainment. “Humanum est errare.” He pronounces the Latin – just as the book commands – with a French accent, and Coward chuckles, the small tremors of laughter oddly comforting against Blackwood's naked chest, and he can't resist to press his lips to Coward's temple before he reads on.

They are taking full advantage of the holiday and spend their day in bed, a rare occasion of domestic bliss, Blackwood propped with the back against the headboard, a book in his left hand, Coward curled into his arms. Even though they spent a good deal of the late morning and early afternoon with engaging in several rather exhausting sexual activities that have left them sated and dreamy, when Blackwood moves to turn the page and his forearm is brushing ever so lightly over Coward's chest, he elicits a low whimper that makes him pause. “Again?” he asks somewhat incredulously but not without a smile, his mouth so close to Coward's neck, he must be able to feel the amused curl of Blackwood's lips.

Coward does not answer, he is too busy to arc into Blackwood's fingers that have begun to trail ever so lightly over one of his nipples, one fingertip after the other, scarcely more than an airy brush, but the tender flesh is tightening swiftly, eagerly and it does not take long until the nipple is completely hard under the probing touch.

Blackwood puts down the book. There are few things in the world that please him anywhere nearly as much as Coward's greediness for his caress, and he would be damned, if he missed an opportunity to indulge his appetite. Sometimes he wonders if the day may ever come, he will not find Coward ready and willing at even the slightest innuendo, regardless how thoroughly he has already made use of him. He always wants more, a random spark, a casual touch enough to light his passion, and Blackwood adores this eagerness. 

He folds back the blanket to enjoy a proper view of Coward's lithe body as it is overtaken by the rising tide of arousal. He watches affectionately how the lazy circles he draws around the nipple tremble through the limbs, how the skin stretches, the muscles tighten, the ribcage swells with excited breath. Blackwood can almost feel the blunt tug of desire at the base of his spine himself, when he watches Coward's blue blood rise to the surface, a gorgeous rose pedal-blush colouring his chest, then rush further downwards, all this refined, purified sanguis nobilis that so wantonly fills his cock at this slightest of touches.

He gives the nipple an experimental pinch, not cruel, just hard enough for Coward's hands to bury themselves in the sheets and a broken moan to escape his mouth. His eyes have fluttered shut to revel in the sensations, and Blackwood allows it for the time being. Sometimes it seems only fair to let Coward have these moments of abandon, even though in general he prefers him to bear witness to his depravation. Coward needs to see for himself, what he becomes under Blackwood's hands, this begging, beastly thing, stitched roughly together from want and need and all sorts of base desires, that is so unlike the suave politician, the high-born lord as whom the world has grown to know him. Blackwood has the power to take this mask away from him, the pretence, the disguise, strip him down to this true self, and Coward may not shy away from the revelation. But sometimes Blackwood is merciful, and lets him have the pleasure without the sting of self-awareness.

He runs his fingers over the hardened bud, the skin of his finger pads almost coarse in comparison to the tenderness of the nipple, a delicious contrast that wrings another moan from Coward's throat, a guttural, desperate sound, which reminds Blackwood of a theory that still waits to be proven. He pulls Cowards closer, so his back is flush against Blackwood's chest and his cock within reach of Blackwood's hands, and Coward does not resist in the slightest, lets himself be rearranged like a rag doll and only turns his head to mouth silent pleas against Blackwood's collarbone. Blackwood does not need to make out the words to know what it is that Coward asks for. He wants to be kissed until he nearly passes out from lack of air, wants Blackwood's hands around his throat or around his cock, wants to be fucked, wants to be owned, wants to come, _needs_ to come, and he knows that is never too early to start pleading for it, because Blackwood will always enjoy hearing him beg. Though he enjoys these little, incoherent sounds even better. These moans and whimpers and gasps, just like now, as he reaches down, and Coward, bless him, hopes he will actually take him in hand and bring him off quickly, Blackwood can sense it in the way his hips shift and his thighs shiver, how he melts against him, but swift mercy is not what he has in mind.

He just strokes him one, twice, just enough to push back the foreskin and have Coward's cock lie thick and heavy against his belly, when he returns to rub his fingers over his nipples, the friction reduced by the first drops of preejaculate coating his fingertips, and Coward positively whines at the realisation of Blackwood's plan. Blackwood has praised the sensitivity of his nipples countless times before, low raspy whispers of approval, wondering aloud, if Coward could come from this stimulation alone, susceptible as he is, and promising one day they would try. And Coward, despite his shameless moans, was only too happy, when Blackwood's skilful fingers wrapped themselves around his cock instead and tormented him in more conventional ways.

Now sheer despair makes Coward twist and writhe under Blackwood's hands, as if to escape the caress, these alternating strokes and pinches and tugs, that sends small jolts of pleasure through his body. At first they are mere shivers, trembling through his muscles, then the sensations begin to roll through him like waves with every laboured intake of breath. He spreads his legs, the soles of his feet firmly planted against the mattress, fighting the tremors, the uncontrollable twitch of muscle, and revelling in these instinctive reactions at the same time, since ultimately all the stimulation he can get for his cock in this position derives from these animal movements, the jerks that shake his limbs and torso. And it bobs so prettily off his stomach, flushed and so wet already, it leaves smears on the skin.

“Look what a mess you have made of yourself,” Blackwood remarks while rolling the nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and marvelling at the surges of pleasure he evokes and the stickiness dribbling from Coward's cock. “But since you enjoy this so much, perhaps I shall never have you any in other way. Just play with your nipples until you come and then fuck you through the aftershocks--” 

He laughs at Coward's reaction, that is half fearful, half eager moan of his name, hardly more than a sob as it falls from Coward's lips, a prayer in a litany of moans. 

“Henry, _oh Henry_ \-- I can't, I... oh please, _please_.”

He has opened his eyes, which are so glassy, Blackwood doubts he sees anything right now, anything perhaps than a soothsayer's vision, and he is inclined to ask about the arcane secrets that hide beyond the boundaries of reason, but then he suspects, Coward could not answer anyway, so he only admires the delightful destruction he wreaks on him. Such a noble creature brought so low: His lips are blooming red with bite marks, a delicious blush high on his cheekbones, his nipples painting themselves in a whorish crimson, all this blood, this ichor of an ancient lineage brought to the surface by a magician's hand. As if he had been bred for this, pedigree percolated and perfected through the centuries, for a display of decadence. Blackwood can see the madness in the frenzy, the palsy in the frantic shudders. Perhaps the truth of this cannot be found in words.

Coward's movements become even more of a struggle when Blackwood makes use of his fingernails, hard edge on tortured flesh, he thrashes as if in death throes, the tension threatening to burst through his skin. Every fibre of muscle, every sinew is tense, shivering. He is so, so close. 

“Such a good boy,” Blackwood whispers into his ear, his fingers twisting, viciously this time, and Coward gasps, moans, goes still for a moment, “Yes, that's it, come for me,” Blackwood says and Coward obeys.

_


End file.
